


Aphrodite

by Lobb



Category: RWBY
Genre: F/M, Multi, Shameless Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-08
Updated: 2020-11-08
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:54:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27451576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lobb/pseuds/Lobb
Summary: Jaune loves married women.  There's just something about them...
Relationships: Jaune Arc/Pyrrha Nikos/Weiss Schnee
Comments: 3
Kudos: 66





	Aphrodite

**Author's Note:**

> AN: Just some Arctic Warfare smut to indulge in, because I haven’t written nearly enough porn lately.

**Aphrodite**

  
  
  


Atlas was beautiful this time of year. At least, that’s what Jaune thought. The fancy parties he could do without- but everywhere they went seemed to be a rush of some new place they had to be because of who they were.

The downsides to living the life he did. One of few, if he was honest. His eyes drifted across the crowd, hoping how much he didn’t care to be here wasn’t written on his face as he raised a champagne flute to his lips and teased it.

These people wouldn’t know a good drink if someone shot them with the cork. He always had that thought, too. Socialites thought because of how expensive a liquor was, the more it was to be enjoyed.

He had learned one thing in his adult life- the best drink was often cheaper than a pair of shoes. Men’s shoes, he mentally corrected.

“You look bored.” A pristine, idyllic voice came from his shoulder, and he turned his head. The woman smiled at him, lips painted softly red, and eyes narrowed in amusement.

“Couldn’t be.” He argued back with a smile. She rolled her eyes, and he stopped himself from doing the same just to be cheeky.

“Jaune.” Weiss Schnee uttered without an ounce of fanfare, “You didn’t have to come if you were going to hate it this much.”

_ And hear all about it later? You wish. _ He kept that thought inside, knowing better than to say it then. Heroes had reputations to uphold, that’s what he’d heard from so many people. He remembered Ruby at her first little party, just the same as when they’d been at Beacon. Unwilling to step away from the punch bowl, and refusing outright to dance.

Dancing was about the only thing good about these parties, in his opinion.  _ And the dresses. _ He admitted mentally, blue eyes trailing down low to where the snow-haired woman’s gown draped open at a slit, exposing a thigh that was as pale and pristine as any fresh morning snow.

He ignored the glower on her face when she caught him looking. “Just don’t say anything that will hit the news tomorrow, please.” She uttered, turning to walk away with a sway in her step that made his attention come back to her before she vanished into a crowd that was full of people older than all of his siblings- and him- put together.

“If only I could.” He muttered to himself, raking a hand back through his kempt blonde locks, finishing the flute of champagne before letting his feet carry him back into the party. Sure, he knew how to schmooze- how to act at a place like this- but that never made it anything he particularly enjoyed.

He’d rather let his eyes wander. He was young, in his prime, it was a good excuse. Women were fickle things, if you said the right words at the right time, you never had to go home alone.

He spotted a woman amidst a group of others, laughing into a fist while another talked. Long hair, just enough makeup to be tasteful, but the real clincher was when he looked at her left hand.

A wedding ring.

If Jaune had learned anything about these parties- it was that the forbidden fruit was the sweetest. And, that? That made these parties worth it.

He was an animal on the prowl, he didn’t mind how dorky that thought sounded, because it was true. He slipped through crowds and around the dance-floor, making his way closer like a man with a mission.

She laughed again, at something one of the other women said, no doubt- and he slipped into their circle with a grin and a hand behind his back.

She smiled, the girls huffed. He told a joke, she looked away. There was a whole song and dance about these places- the huffy, stuck up women and the pompous air-bags who shared the male species with him.

Against Weiss’ wishes, he offered her a hand, “Would you mind a dance?”

Lips painted softly pink quirked, eyes shined as a hand extended. “I’d love a dance.”

So he led her away, the wry comments of the group that had kept her company before fading behind them as he slipped closer to the center of the room, the soft-toned band playing a tune that wouldn’t have been out of place two-hundred years ago.

A shame it wasn’t a more spirited beat. The fresh, unfiltered taste of instruments that didn’t need amplification to fill a room with acoustics like this. It filled his head with memories, even as his hands- larger than hers- wrapped and entwined. Her leg cocked, his hip swung, she stepped, and he advanced.

Every little movement was just another experience. Jaune smiled, she smiled back. “You’re quite the dancer, Mister Arc.” His hand, once upon her hip, moved to the small of her back as the softness of the song became a longing drone.

“Thank you. You’re no slouch yourself.” Internally, he winced. That sounded so much smoother in his head. Whoops. Nonetheless, those painted lips curled and her eyes crinkled just so at the edges.

She really was breathtaking. He’d always had a thing for long hair- it just allured him in some unnatural, ethereal way. Like it held a powerful mystery of the universe- the neck, the shoulders. Something about that always was just ‘his thing’.

So much of his focus was on her that he forgot he was even dancing, letting the music move him. His senses awash in her scent- rainwater and honey. So down to earth and sweet- so pure. Her eyes shine under the light, and he has to stop himself from saying something stupid.

He has to pace himself. Even though he wants nothing more than to flirt, Jaune knows in his heart he has to seduce first.

There aren’t many other people dancing, after all. These parties always are filled with drab, boring people who only want to ruin their souls- some for profit, others for gain.

For a moment, he forgets why he came, his fingers tighten at her spine, and she lets out a soft noise that feels like someone just lit a fire under his stomach. “You don’t have to be so rough.” She whispers, and his eyes meet hers. In them, he sees a glimmer.

Part of him aches to see it. Another sees himself taking her hand. He isn’t sure who wins. He just knows Weiss will be mad.

Then again, it’s always hard to please the snow-haired woman. She’d always find something to obsess over. She had a hard time just letting go.

Sometimes, you just wanted to let it all out. “This party isn’t for people like us.” He insisted, softly into her nape.

Her lips curled, he loved watching it. “And what kind of party is for ‘us’, Mister Arc?”

“Come with me.”

He’s really bad at the whole ‘seduction’ thing. Even as they sneak off through a crowd, he doesn’t care who sees- that’s how shameless he is. The hunt is never as thrilling as he thinks it should be.

It’s a little side room in the manor, he knows it fairly well by now. Weiss’ parties have given him plenty of chance to figure out where is the best place to go unnoticed- unfound. It used to be her father’s office, but now it was just a study. Just a place that no one wanted to visit. Too many bad memories.

His memories weren’t so tainted. Well, with memories of a man, anyway. Parted legs, fleeting smiles, a roughness that belonged in a kennel instead of a wealthy home. “Mister Arc.” She breathed, “Just where are you leading me?”

“Somewhere we can dance in private.” He promised, unashamed when his hand slipped low, and she let out a whisper of a breath.  _ Lace. _ He thought, testing the texture with his finger. Another upsetting mewl came from her.  _ She likes it rough. _

That’s fine with him.

Before he can really put words to it, she’s spread on a desk, open to him. That high slit on her dress is a Gods-given blessing. She tastes nothing like honey or rainwater, she’s musky and rich. He remembered ‘guy talk’, prideful banter back at Beacon about sexual prowess. Even then, he always wondered if any of his class-mates had any clue just how little you could know about a woman.

You could know her flavor, the brand of Shampoo she used, the spot on her thigh that made her giggle if you kissed it just right- but you’d never understand. He never stopped being awed by women, even having grown up around so many of them.

Her fingers twine in his hair, and he loves the way she sighs as his teeth ghost over her thigh. He breathes on the bruise, and her breasts shake with a titter. Part of him wants to push his nails into her skin- just so she’ll bleed.

He knows it’s wrong, but he does it anyway. She whimpers his name, and he digs his tongue into her sex and unashamedly apologizes by letting his lip rub against her clit.

Her thighs tighten around his head, and he dutifully obliges. The quiver of each muscle is felt as his hands move up to run along the handles of her love and grasp her- possessive and controlling.

He’s not had control for most of his life. Here? Here, he’s the master. It’s one of the few things he can say he’s proud of. She squeals when he hums, his tongue pressed against her pearl. He plays her like an instrument, and she sounds so finely tuned he wonders if her spouse plays her just the same.

That’s just not how the night is going to go. No matter how much he wants to take her breasts- and they’re a damn fine pair, if he says so himself- into his hands, he doesn’t. He plays with her navel, tickles his fingers across defined abdominal muscles that make him realize just how much he loves a fit woman.

He loves women in general, and he shares that by burying his face in deeper, tongue being used like a lance to pierce into the furthest depths of her aching core. She cries out again, and he feels like a God.

It makes him feel good. Not just because he’s as hard as he can be- but because there’s something beautiful about having power over a woman without words.

“Touch me.” She husks, and he’s glad to oblige. He can almost hear her biting her lip, her hands crushing his lips to her cunt. She likes it rough- and she gives as good as she wants to get.

She’s without a bra- it’s built into the dress, he knows- and before he knows it, he just can’t take any more foreplay. She whines a little when he pulls away- but Jaune is pretty sure she’s ready.

The way she looks at him, with those rich emerald eyes, he’d have to be an idiot to think she wasn’t. She opens her legs back up as he stands, and smiles when he fumbles with the clasp to his belt. Damn it, you try undressing gracefully when you’re the horniest you’ve ever been.

Women always made it look easy.

He looks into her eyes, and sees the way her hair frames her face like a halo as he finally manages and slides into her without an ounce of struggle. But, when he’s sheathed inside of her?

She squeezes, and he sees stars. She giggles, and he fights not to bite into her like an animal in heat. Nothing is as sweet as when his hands grip the hardwood of the desk, and he struggles through fitting himself into her again. She doesn’t make it easy, and the flushed smile on her lips tells him she’s doing it on purpose.

He’s big, but she makes him feel gigantic. She stinks of smug satisfaction, and that makes him say  _ Fuck it  _ to trying to keep his cool. His head dips, and his teeth sink into the soft flesh at her neck- just above that beautiful gold necklace that dips low into the valley of her breasts.

Jaune hates how powerful her whimper makes him feel. It’s the ugliest, most beautiful sensation that’s ever coursed down his spine like a spear of lightning. It only gets better when she clamps down on him with that heated vice, and he just refuses to be human anymore.

If she wants rough. He will give her rough.

**SLAM!**

The desk shakes, and he doesn’t care. Her nails rake locks of blonde out of his eyes as he stares her right in the face. He loves it, to see a beautiful, poised woman reduced to a creature of instinct. He’d read in some cheesy romance novel- one Blake would have loved, he was sure- that sex made Gods of men and Goddesses of women.   
  
**Thwunk!**

He disagreed. Sex was ugly, carnal, a race for pleasure that was so short-lived sometimes it could make you cry. She looks up at him, and he doesn’t feel like a God. He feels like a beast. Like a monster. Not a hero.

Every thrust shakes the desk- only because he’s got Aura-enhanced strength. Every time she squeezes his hips with her legs and lets out a squeal, he wants to consume her- before he’s consumed by her.

Gods, she’s so damn beautiful when she looks at him like that. Eyes lidded, face flushed, lips parted just enough that he can see her tongue tensing and flattening against her teeth. Pink spreads from her face all the way down to her breasts, and he can’t resist.

“A-ah!” She hisses when his teeth scrape a hard nipple, and he wishes he could say he would’ve been gentle, but it would have been a lie.

He might have forgotten how to.

She whimpers when he bottoms out again, and he has to restrain himself from erupting. There’s no secret cure to that need, no special trick that he’s ever heard of. So he stops, and she nearly sobs out a “No- please, not yet. Keep going-”

His hands shift back down, and he trails them over long legs just before they hook and lift under her rump to pull her in. Every new thrust now scrapes along the roof of her sex, and he feels that spongy little cluster that he knows will make her scream.

Because they’re always screamers. He seems to only fall in love with women who can never keep quiet.

Her breasts jiggle with his renewed rhythm, and the blonde struggles for a moment to capture her other bud, lashing his tongue against it like he’s punishing her for her sins.

As if he isn’t the guilty one.

But there’s no person in the world who could make him stop right then. Even when a pair of hands wind over his stomach and dip low, a finger extending to rub the knuckle against his lover’s clit when he bucks deeper into her.

A feather-light kiss touches on his shoulder, and he knows the words that will come out before they make a noise. “What are you doing to my wife?”

He’s cumming before he can respond, growling like a Grimm’s taken control of his body. Pushed in tight to the woman’s clenching, seizing thighs as some part of him feels damn proud that they came at the same time.

Emerald eyes open, and he looks into them again after a moment, before they glint with mischief and she looks at his side. “Oh no. How will I ever outlive this scandal?” She giggles, and he has to fight not to smile.

Pyrrha’s never been the best actor, even as Weiss’ hand entraps his cock and gently pulls him free of her sex- the hand with her own wedding band, and for some reason that makes him even more turned on than he already was. That soft, dainty little hand rich with callouses from an accomplished fencing career trails back up, and he doesn’t mind when he’s pushed unceremoniously to the side. He just lets himself curl over onto the desk next to the redheaded woman as Weiss glides like an angel between the other woman’s legs.

He can’t deny just how turned on he gets when he sees Weiss with Pyrrha. He wishes he could, but no man could lie about that. The dainty little CEO of an empire of Dust and politics digging red-painted lips right in against the juice-streaked, spunk-filled petals of his lover’s pussy.

They forget the roleplay- Pyrrha because she can’t talk, Weiss because she’s sick of how bad their acting is, and Jaune because he’s so damn turned on he’s hard again before Weiss is finished scooping out the remainder of his seed inside Pyrrha with her tongue.

He knows first-hand just how talented Weiss is with her mouth- both with words and without. There’s only so much he can stand before he’s knee-deep in a pit he would never willingly walk out of.

He’s an idiot, but he’s not crazy.

He starts to think of asking Weiss if she wants him to prepare her, but decides against it as he slides behind her- pulling up the skirts of her gown and discovering something that does not surprise him, but still shocks him.

There’s not a damn thing on under that dress, and if he wasn’t already pulsing with heat, that alone makes him grasp her hips and sink into her without an ounce of shame. It’s only magnified when she groans against Pyrrha’s stomach, the redhead brushing beautiful fingers through locks of snow-white.

That tenderness reminds him just so why he loves these women. Why he can stand the fact that Weiss is still small enough that he can’t quite fit all the way before he bumps- as gently as he can- against a barrier he knows will hurt her too much to be too rough with the woman he’s held a flame for almost a decade.

“Mmnff-!” And the siren song she sings when he gets situated and finds the rhythm for where he won’t hurt her, but makes her fit around him like a tailored suit. Weiss likes it slow, and romantic. Jaune certainly would never complain, but they’re a bundle of hormones and agitation with yet another social event none of them wanted to deal with.

This is just another way they make the best of it. Sometimes, they just sneak out- sometimes they flirt. He remembers telling a joke about Sanus, Mistral, and Atlas coming together one time- and the looks of disgust he got for wearing a jackass’ smile during it.

“Kiss me.” Pyrrha demands- and it’s a demand, something he’d started getting far more used to from a woman who he’d always thought seemed so happy to just take orders. And he does, while they change positions and he gets to lay back on the desk while Weiss mounts him.

Weiss likes it when she’s on top. It’s part of what makes her so damn pretty when she looks like she’s just ran a marathon. Her petite form achingly crushing and rolling her hips to make him struggle not to climax. Pyrrha teases them both with a hand down where they’re connected, and he damn near begs her not to set him off-

And then Weiss screams like a gun going off, and tries to tear his cock off. “I’m cumming-” He grunts, but no matter how he remembers Weiss insisting that it was unsafe- that they’d have to be careful until she can get a new birth control set up- she pulls him almost flat against her cervix and he knows he’s painting her just as white as she always loves.

His knees feel like jelly when Weiss collapses atop him, and Pyrrha giggles and presses in just enough to lay kisses upon both of their heads. “She really loves doing it on her father’s old desk.” The Mistralian woman remarks, and the indignant little grunt from Weiss is more cute than it is offended.

“Third favorite place.” Jaune noted, with a smile. One hand rushing through the silky screen of Weiss’ free hair- just as long and beautiful as the redhead’s- while he felt the other grasped by Pyrrha’s own and brought up to her lips. Painted pink press to sterling silver, and he tries to push down a grin- and fails.

“And where is the First and Second?” The married young woman asked, fondly rubbing his knuckles as Weiss finally caught her breath back.

“The bath…” Jaune noted-

“And our big, overly expensive bed- that  **I** had to buy because my husband and wife broke the last two.”

“I’m not sorry…” Pyrrha smiled even as she said it.


End file.
